Those Immortal Wings
by YesAnimeCharactersCanBeSexy
Summary: Effortlessly, she flew. Until lightning flashed, and she began to fall. Her wings were clipped, and she was gravity's plaything. Yuffentine.


**A/N:** Something different than my usual humour. Extra appreciative of feedback on this first foray into semi-prose/angst/comfort. Prepare to be buried under one long, feathery metaphor.

**Disclaimer: **All ur final fantasy r belong to square enix.

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**Those Immortal Wings**

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Effortlessly, she flew.

Her first flight was that from the first level of the pagoda. It left her with scraped knees and a thirst for more, for true flight from limitless heights into endless skies.

So she would climb higher, higher and higher and higher until she could almost touch the stars, if she stood on tiptoes and stretched as far as she could. And then she would launch herself from her tenuous perch among the angels and she would stretch out her wings and just glide on currents of air blown from faraway lands. She would fly, the world tiny and insignificant below her. She viewed them all, those other people sharing the world with her, from high above, where they were ants and all their problems were trivial.

She left her nest, her Wutai, in a search for shiny baubles, glimmering things that she would bring back with her one day, to restore her beloved home's former glory, to caw derisively_ who's laughing now_. She scavenged, magpie-like, unconcerned with any concept of property or ownership.

For they were ants, and she could hardly see them, and if _she couldn't see them then they weren't real_.

On one fateful day, however, some of the ants got larger, large enough to have names, to have a meaning. Cloud, Tifa, Aerith, Barret, Red. And then as she got closer to them she found that they weren't ants at all, but beautiful hawks and sparrows and doves and seagulls and cardinals. What she had always mistaken for ants were in fact butterflies and hummingbirds, delicate, fragile things made up of rainbows and dreams.

She hid her real colours, her black and white markings that showed her for the treacherous scavenger she was, beneath a dazzling array of colours, joining their flock as the talkative parrot.

Their flock grew, swelling with a feeling of companionship. Cait Sith, Vincent, Cid; pigeon, raven, albatross. An eclectic flock they were, mismatched and odd but so very much a family.

And they were all covered in shiny baubles, ripe for the plucking, their trust blinding them to the traitor in their midst. Always, she kept one eye on her prize, even while her other smiled and laughed with her newfound companions as they flew around the world. She became closer to them, following Cloud in their V formation, drawing especially close to the raven, whose feathers seemed so black until the sunlight hit them just right, revealing glints of blue and green and violet that she never would have guessed at existing.

Eventually they neared Wutai, and she prepared to show her true colours, practiced her _caw_ing in anticipation of her victory.

She found, when she finally revealed herself, that the black and white of her feathers were no longer clearly defined, but instead had blurred into indistinguishable shades of grey. She ignored this, and snatched away their precious glitters.

That was when she first experienced the notion of falling, gained any inkling that gravity even existed. It was only a short drop, ended by the very ones she had betrayed, who caught her in their own gentle talons and allowed her to stay, to continue her flight with them to the ends of the earth. And so she learned that _all that_'s_ gold does not glitter_. For a while, the sickening feeling of her short free fall stayed with her, but it eventually dissipated, blown away by the ever-present winds.

So she continued to fly, to duck and weave joyfully through the fields of blue, surrounded by her flock, her family, her friends. She chattered away with the dove and the sparrow, gossiping with them about the handsome plume of the hawk, while she found her eyes drawn to the dark and silent raven. She joked with the albatross, played with the pigeon, bothered the seagull and pulled the cardinal's tail feathers. And to the best of her ability she ignored the storm that gathered around them all, staining the blue sky black with a hungering malice.

Until she could ignore it no longer, and the dove was gone, flown the coup to take on that vulture, that great winged monstrosity, all by herself, a hint of white in the gathering darkness.

For the first time since she had gained her wings she flew straight, unswerving, following in the wake of the desperate hawk, speeding northward.

And for one moment, one insane, desperate moment of hope and irrationality, she thought they had found her in time, and the wind filled her wings and she felt completely weightless once more. For there she was, the whiteness of her feathers shining with innocence, with hope, with love and faith and every single thing that was simply good, a single flame of light in the sable storm that surrounded her.

They were so close, so close that she began to sing out a greeting, overjoyed at seeing her alive still, despite it all.

Despite it all.

The lightning struck her then, struck her as she watched, burning her retinas, scarring her memory forever and a day with its quickness, with its unstoppable injustice, and she watched, screaming silently as she watched her, her dove, her sister, her Aerith, float lifelessly away, white feathers charred and ruffling slightly in the hurricane winds, as the vulture circled above, gloating soundlessly, one wing outstretched with a girth so great it blocked out the sun.

And she began to fall.

Her wings were clipped, and she plummeted, gravity's plaything. The winds that had once cushioned her, blown away all the dangers in the world, suddenly turned on her, biting at her, driving her forever downwards. She spiralled endlessly, and up became down and she became numb to the constant winds, until everything began to fade away, and the sky would never be blue again, only endlessly grey from horizon to horizon. The colour was leeched from the world. The hawk was lost, lost in himself, and the sparrow searched fruitlessly for him. She could see them, far in the distance, plummeting just like her, but she was unable to care anymore, too numb and too far faded. The albatross, far above her, flapping desperately, trying to stay aloft, trying to keep the remaining flock aloft, and she couldn't help but think just how pointless and hopeless it was and _why do you even try_.

So she continued to fall, falling from the heavens as an angel falls from grace. She almost longed for the impact, craved it, so she could just end this, because she was so very tired, her once hollow bones filled with a lead made of despair and grief that was infinitely heavier than any mere physical substance.

With an iridescent sheen, the only hint of colour in her grey landscape, he was beside her suddenly. She thought, for a moment, that he was falling too, but realized that he was diving, pointing straight down, focused entirely on his objective. And she wondered vaguely, with the last vestiges of her consciousness that even bothered with thought, what his objective was, what it was he dived so desperately for.

When he outstretched his golden talons, and gently latched onto her, she realized it was her.

Her descent into the infinite abyss slowed, but it was not enough, not enough to halt her inescapable fall. Only an angel could save her now, and the only angels she knew were either dead, gone, never coming back, or a perversion of all that was sacred and holy.

As it turned out, she was mistaken. Demons had wings, just as angels did. And just as not all angels are good, not all demons are evil.

From the raven's back, wings, leathery and immortal, erupted. She had known of his demons, of the blackness within that mimicked his colouring, but now he laid it all bare, showed her his core, his innermost shame. And she took comfort in the knowledge that despite all his demons, those with physical form and those that lurked only in the depths of his mind, despite it all, he still fought. He fought for repentance, for forgiveness, even though _it was never your fault, Vincent_, and she drew strength from his struggle, enough strength to begin a struggle of her own.

Under those immortal wings, spawns of chaos and hell, they began their climb, back to the heavens. It was desperate, painstaking, a simple refusal against countless despairs.

And eventually, she found she could fly again. He was tentative to let her go, to allow her to try once more, on her own, but she had no fears now. She welcomed the chance to fly once more, to fly near her lost angels, to spit in the face of the vulture, to roar with defiance and to dive upon her despair and her grief and her sorrow from above, to catch it all by surprise as she flew from the sun into their blinded eyes.

She no longer feared gravity, no longer cared about the rules of the world. Her wings might buckle, her flight leave her, but she was not afraid, not anymore.

For she knew he would always catch her, and bare her upwards again and again and again, whenever she might stumble, whenever she might fall.

And later, when their great migration finally came to an end, she stayed with her raven, her saviour, her dark and chaotic angel, and she would still caw, caw in the face of anyone who suggested that gravity existed. For she had learned many things, had learned many truths.

She was Yuffie, raised up on immortal wings, and she knew there were places where gravity did not reach, did not even dare to dream of. A place of paradox, of contrast, of limitless boundaries, of joy and of sorrow.

A place of angels.


End file.
